Game Face, page 8
You don’t think I can tell
whether or not my own son
is okay?
* * *
No, I don’t!
* * *
There’s a pause
and when Oma speaks again
her voice is calm.
* * *
I’ve seen you struggle
seen you get better
did my best to support you
when you abandoned treatment
after Melanie died.
* * *
My mom’s name
jabs my heart
a quick jolt
and Dad’s next words
float past
without pausing
in my ears.
* * *
I recover just in time
to be clobbered
by Oma’s reply.
* * *
He’s just like you.
Shatter
I jerk back
shove the door
don’t care
that it slams
* * *
drop
onto my bed
whole body hollow
as Oma’s words
echo
in my head.
* * *
Breathe fast
up again
pace the room
she’s wrong —
* * *
I went to school
even though my brain
begged me to stay home
* * *
visited Ty in hospital
when my gut
would’ve been happier not to
* * *
played in goal
game after game
faced shot after shot
all season long
* * *
all of which my dad
would
not
do.
* * *
I grab my pillow
muffle the growl
that erupts
from my throat.
* * *
It’s NOT TRUE.
* * *
Thoughts from somewhere
deep
in my brain
* * *
wriggle their way
to the surface
* * *
— weight on my chest
knots in my stomach
* * *
running running running
when kids at school swarmed
when Ty needed me
when Mom
died.
* * *
An invisible force
tries to crush me
now.
* * *
My stomach threatens
to spew my lunch
now.
* * *
My legs itch
twitch
like they want to run
now.
* * *
I fling the pillow from me
let it fly across the room.
It steamrolls my desk lamp
knocks it to the floor
* * *
ceramic base
busts in half
* * *
bulb
shatters.
A Piece of the Story
The crash and clatter
satisfies something inside
as if breaking the lamp
broke my anger, and I’m left
with an empty, sick sensation
in my belly.
* * *
Dad comes into my room
glances at the pillow
near the wreckage
on my floor. He picks up
the two halves of lamp
from among the shards of bulb
cradles the broken pieces
in his hands.
* * *
I’ll get the broom
in a minute, he says
not even asking
about the lamp.
* * *
He stands there a moment
not saying anything
then pulls out the desk chair
with his foot, sits with the lamp
pieces held on his lap.
* * *
I perch on the edge
of my bed, pull up a corner
of the quilt, twist the fabric
around my fingers.
* * *
Finally Dad clears his throat
says, You know how I am.
How I don’t drive
don’t go out much
— that sort of thing.
Do you know why
I’m like that?
* * *
I shrug, not sure I want
to look him in the eye.
* * *
Because of worries? I say
making it sound like a question
even though I know
it’s the truth.
* * *
Sort of, he says
and I look up.
* * *
Sort of
means there’s more to it
than worries.
Sort of
means I only know a piece
of the story.
The Truth about My Dad
Even when I was little
Dad wasn’t a fan
of meetings or events
but he would go out every weekday
to work at the office.
Since the accident
he mostly works at home.
I thought it was so he could be here
to take care of me
now that Mom
wasn’t
didn’t realize it wasn’t a choice
didn’t realize he couldn’t manage
going out to his job anymore.
* * *
He used to drive
when we went somewhere
the three of us
together.
He never replaced the car
after the accident
and I didn’t clue in for ages
that not driving was not at all
about having no car
and one hundred percent
about an awful mix
of worries and sadness
not letting him get back
in the driver’s seat.
* * *
He never did go to my games.
* * *
When I was little
I pretended I didn’t mind
that he seemed to care
more about work
than me and my activities
but I did mind — still do
if I’m being honest
but at least I know now
it isn’t because he doesn’t care
enough, but that he cares
too much
worries too much
can’t stand to watch
or even
barely
think about it.
* * *
The truth is
Dad’s worries existed
Before
but got much worse
After.
The Truth about Me
I catch a glimpse of myself
in my dad’s nervous face
nearly every
single
day.
Control
Dad fusses with the lamp pieces
restacks them
on his lap.
Finally he twists around
in the chair, sets the broken
bits on my desk
then faces me again
back straight.
* * *
Everyone has worries
from time to time, he says.
But for me, it’s more than that.
I have an anxiety disorder
— a kind of illness.
I’m trying to get better
or
I was trying.
* * *
He hesitates.
* * *
I wrap the edge of the quilt
around one hand
unwrap
wrap again.
* * *
But I’m not here
to talk about me, he says.
Oma wonders
and I wonder
if you might be struggling
with the same kind of thing.
* * *
I freeze
fabric clenched
in my fists.
* * *
I go out, I say. I play hockey.
And I’m going to drive
— when I’m old enough.
I will.
* * *
He shifts in his seat
sighs heavily
as if talking about this
takes every speck
of his energy.
* * *
It isn’t really about driving
or not driving, he says. Anxiety
is more about worries
and scary thoughts being
out of control, getting in the way
of living life.
I’m sure there are things
you worry about, he says.
But your worries
— they’re not
out of control
are they?
* * *
His face is a familiar tangle
of love and fear and his voice
practically pleads for everything
to be okay.
* * *
I let go of the quilt
smooth the fabric beside me
lift my chin
and tell him exactly
what he needs to hear.
* * *
I’m fine.
Clarity
In the dark
Dad’s words sink
into my heart.
* * *
Truth drifts
across my mind
barely there
* * *
takes shape
becomes solid
settles into place.
* * *
The alien
in my brain
has a name.
* * *
Part of me
wants to ignore
the problem
* * *
bury the evidence
keep it hidden
in shadows
* * *
but maybe
it would be easier
if I brought it
* * *
into the light.
My Old Pal, Al
Dear Alien in my Brain,
* * *
We both know your real name
is Anxiety, but I’m not ready
to introduce you to anyone else.
Still, we should be on a first-name
basis by now, and Alien doesn’t
quite seem to fit. Can I call you Al?
* * *
Your friend,
Your enemy,
Your host,
* * *
Jonah
Clouds
Dad has to go out after lunch
to see clients. He reminds me
like he always does
that his cell number
office number
Oma’s number
are on the index card
stuck to the fridge
like they always are.
* * *
Is he going to treat me
like a kid forever? I bite back
my reply, let him have this
bogus bit of control
over potential disaster.
He shrugs into his jacket
and steps outside.
* * *
I watch him start
down the sidewalk
almost wishing I’d gone
to school today, almost wishing
I didn’t have the afternoon
stretching out ahead of me
empty
but Dad and I both figured
I needed a home day.
* * *
He wants me to rest
think about what he said
yesterday. So far I haven’t managed
to think about anything else.
* * *
Dad waves
at an oncoming car
— the Taylors’ SUV.
* * *
Ty’s on his way home
from the hospital.
* * *
They drive past our house
disappear around the curve
in our road.
* * *
I pick up a book
put it down
flick on the TV
but don’t watch, wander
through the house.
* * *
He’d want to see me
right? Might be wondering
what’s taking me so long
to get to his house.
* * *
That day at the hospital
— he wasn’t himself.
His text
yesterday
seemed more like the Ty
I know, more like nothing
has changed.
* * *
I should go.
* * *
I cross the street
walk a block
knock
on Ty’s front door.
Mrs. Taylor answers
ushers me inside with her
usual welcoming smile.
* * *
Her hand settles
on my shoulder
and her expression
morphs
lips press together
brows pinch
and she says,
soft, so it’s just
between us
Maybe don’t mention hockey
okay? It’s going to take time
for Ty to adjust.
* * *
I go up to Ty’s room
say hey, ask if he’s feeling
okay.
* * *
He sits on the floor
with a bin of Lego bricks
keeps searching through
yellow black red blue
rummaging
for the perfect piece
while the thing we don’t talk about
hangs in the room
like dark clouds scowling
before a storm.
Rescue
By the time I leave Ty’s place
the awkwardness in the room
has grown thick enough
to smother us both.
* * *
I breathe in cool air outside
squint at the pale sun
plod the long block
back home.
* * *
A short while later
the doorbell rings
and I hope for a second it’s Ty
come to dust off our friendship
and start again
* * *
but it’s Rose.
I guess school’s out
for the day.
* * *
I brought your homework
she says. I can go over it
with you, if you want.
* * *
We sit in the kitchen
books and papers spread
across the table.
I tell her Ty’s back home
and she tells me about Julianna
giving Dylan what for
for hassling a sixth grader
between classes.
Then we get to work.
* * *
Rose hums a song
I don’t recognize.
The notes
float
in my head
and for a moment I forget
whether or not my own son
is okay?
* * *
No, I don’t!
* * *
There’s a pause
and when Oma speaks again
her voice is calm.
* * *
I’ve seen you struggle
seen you get better
did my best to support you
when you abandoned treatment
after Melanie died.
* * *
My mom’s name
jabs my heart
a quick jolt
and Dad’s next words
float past
without pausing
in my ears.
* * *
I recover just in time
to be clobbered
by Oma’s reply.
* * *
He’s just like you.
Shatter
I jerk back
shove the door
don’t care
that it slams
* * *
drop
onto my bed
whole body hollow
as Oma’s words
echo
in my head.
* * *
Breathe fast
up again
pace the room
she’s wrong —
* * *
I went to school
even though my brain
begged me to stay home
* * *
visited Ty in hospital
when my gut
would’ve been happier not to
* * *
played in goal
game after game
faced shot after shot
all season long
* * *
all of which my dad
would
not
do.
* * *
I grab my pillow
muffle the growl
that erupts
from my throat.
* * *
It’s NOT TRUE.
* * *
Thoughts from somewhere
deep
in my brain
* * *
wriggle their way
to the surface
* * *
— weight on my chest
knots in my stomach
* * *
running running running
when kids at school swarmed
when Ty needed me
when Mom
died.
* * *
An invisible force
tries to crush me
now.
* * *
My stomach threatens
to spew my lunch
now.
* * *
My legs itch
twitch
like they want to run
now.
* * *
I fling the pillow from me
let it fly across the room.
It steamrolls my desk lamp
knocks it to the floor
* * *
ceramic base
busts in half
* * *
bulb
shatters.
A Piece of the Story
The crash and clatter
satisfies something inside
as if breaking the lamp
broke my anger, and I’m left
with an empty, sick sensation
in my belly.
* * *
Dad comes into my room
glances at the pillow
near the wreckage
on my floor. He picks up
the two halves of lamp
from among the shards of bulb
cradles the broken pieces
in his hands.
* * *
I’ll get the broom
in a minute, he says
not even asking
about the lamp.
* * *
He stands there a moment
not saying anything
then pulls out the desk chair
with his foot, sits with the lamp
pieces held on his lap.
* * *
I perch on the edge
of my bed, pull up a corner
of the quilt, twist the fabric
around my fingers.
* * *
Finally Dad clears his throat
says, You know how I am.
How I don’t drive
don’t go out much
— that sort of thing.
Do you know why
I’m like that?
* * *
I shrug, not sure I want
to look him in the eye.
* * *
Because of worries? I say
making it sound like a question
even though I know
it’s the truth.
* * *
Sort of, he says
and I look up.
* * *
Sort of
means there’s more to it
than worries.
Sort of
means I only know a piece
of the story.
The Truth about My Dad
Even when I was little
Dad wasn’t a fan
of meetings or events
but he would go out every weekday
to work at the office.
Since the accident
he mostly works at home.
I thought it was so he could be here
to take care of me
now that Mom
wasn’t
didn’t realize it wasn’t a choice
didn’t realize he couldn’t manage
going out to his job anymore.
* * *
He used to drive
when we went somewhere
the three of us
together.
He never replaced the car
after the accident
and I didn’t clue in for ages
that not driving was not at all
about having no car
and one hundred percent
about an awful mix
of worries and sadness
not letting him get back
in the driver’s seat.
* * *
He never did go to my games.
* * *
When I was little
I pretended I didn’t mind
that he seemed to care
more about work
than me and my activities
but I did mind — still do
if I’m being honest
but at least I know now
it isn’t because he doesn’t care
enough, but that he cares
too much
worries too much
can’t stand to watch
or even
barely
think about it.
* * *
The truth is
Dad’s worries existed
Before
but got much worse
After.
The Truth about Me
I catch a glimpse of myself
in my dad’s nervous face
nearly every
single
day.
Control
Dad fusses with the lamp pieces
restacks them
on his lap.
Finally he twists around
in the chair, sets the broken
bits on my desk
then faces me again
back straight.
* * *
Everyone has worries
from time to time, he says.
But for me, it’s more than that.
I have an anxiety disorder
— a kind of illness.
I’m trying to get better
or
I was trying.
* * *
He hesitates.
* * *
I wrap the edge of the quilt
around one hand
unwrap
wrap again.
* * *
But I’m not here
to talk about me, he says.
Oma wonders
and I wonder
if you might be struggling
with the same kind of thing.
* * *
I freeze
fabric clenched
in my fists.
* * *
I go out, I say. I play hockey.
And I’m going to drive
— when I’m old enough.
I will.
* * *
He shifts in his seat
sighs heavily
as if talking about this
takes every speck
of his energy.
* * *
It isn’t really about driving
or not driving, he says. Anxiety
is more about worries
and scary thoughts being
out of control, getting in the way
of living life.
I’m sure there are things
you worry about, he says.
But your worries
— they’re not
out of control
are they?
* * *
His face is a familiar tangle
of love and fear and his voice
practically pleads for everything
to be okay.
* * *
I let go of the quilt
smooth the fabric beside me
lift my chin
and tell him exactly
what he needs to hear.
* * *
I’m fine.
Clarity
In the dark
Dad’s words sink
into my heart.
* * *
Truth drifts
across my mind
barely there
* * *
takes shape
becomes solid
settles into place.
* * *
The alien
in my brain
has a name.
* * *
Part of me
wants to ignore
the problem
* * *
bury the evidence
keep it hidden
in shadows
* * *
but maybe
it would be easier
if I brought it
* * *
into the light.
My Old Pal, Al
Dear Alien in my Brain,
* * *
We both know your real name
is Anxiety, but I’m not ready
to introduce you to anyone else.
Still, we should be on a first-name
basis by now, and Alien doesn’t
quite seem to fit. Can I call you Al?
* * *
Your friend,
Your enemy,
Your host,
* * *
Jonah
Clouds
Dad has to go out after lunch
to see clients. He reminds me
like he always does
that his cell number
office number
Oma’s number
are on the index card
stuck to the fridge
like they always are.
* * *
Is he going to treat me
like a kid forever? I bite back
my reply, let him have this
bogus bit of control
over potential disaster.
He shrugs into his jacket
and steps outside.
* * *
I watch him start
down the sidewalk
almost wishing I’d gone
to school today, almost wishing
I didn’t have the afternoon
stretching out ahead of me
empty
but Dad and I both figured
I needed a home day.
* * *
He wants me to rest
think about what he said
yesterday. So far I haven’t managed
to think about anything else.
* * *
Dad waves
at an oncoming car
— the Taylors’ SUV.
* * *
Ty’s on his way home
from the hospital.
* * *
They drive past our house
disappear around the curve
in our road.
* * *
I pick up a book
put it down
flick on the TV
but don’t watch, wander
through the house.
* * *
He’d want to see me
right? Might be wondering
what’s taking me so long
to get to his house.
* * *
That day at the hospital
— he wasn’t himself.
His text
yesterday
seemed more like the Ty
I know, more like nothing
has changed.
* * *
I should go.
* * *
I cross the street
walk a block
knock
on Ty’s front door.
Mrs. Taylor answers
ushers me inside with her
usual welcoming smile.
* * *
Her hand settles
on my shoulder
and her expression
morphs
lips press together
brows pinch
and she says,
soft, so it’s just
between us
Maybe don’t mention hockey
okay? It’s going to take time
for Ty to adjust.
* * *
I go up to Ty’s room
say hey, ask if he’s feeling
okay.
* * *
He sits on the floor
with a bin of Lego bricks
keeps searching through
yellow black red blue
rummaging
for the perfect piece
while the thing we don’t talk about
hangs in the room
like dark clouds scowling
before a storm.
Rescue
By the time I leave Ty’s place
the awkwardness in the room
has grown thick enough
to smother us both.
* * *
I breathe in cool air outside
squint at the pale sun
plod the long block
back home.
* * *
A short while later
the doorbell rings
and I hope for a second it’s Ty
come to dust off our friendship
and start again
* * *
but it’s Rose.
I guess school’s out
for the day.
* * *
I brought your homework
she says. I can go over it
with you, if you want.
* * *
We sit in the kitchen
books and papers spread
across the table.
I tell her Ty’s back home
and she tells me about Julianna
giving Dylan what for
for hassling a sixth grader
between classes.
Then we get to work.
* * *
Rose hums a song
I don’t recognize.
The notes
float
in my head
and for a moment I forget
